


Brighter Than Night

by mangochi



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: T’Challa spreads his hands, his eyes still gleaming. A predator, draped in sheepskin, innocence quivering from his every pore. “Can a king not pay a visit to his friend?”M’Baku chokes on a bark of laughter, startled violently from his throat by the sheer audacity of it all. He coughs and pounds at his chest with his fist, the blow muffled by his armor. T’Challa watches him patiently, a pensive line between his brows, and M’Baku finally leans back, his shoulders still quivering with mirth. “You are outrageous,” he says. “We are anything but friends.”





	Brighter Than Night

Rebirth has not made the king larger.

M’Baku watches the panther, musing, as he paces the throne room, his finger extended to stroke along the length of one of the hanging white branches. “Find a tree to sharpen your claws, if you must,” M’Baku says dryly, “but leave my decor alone.” T’Challa looks up at him, childlike humor bright in his eyes. Such an expression, M’Baku decides, does not belong on a king. He sighs and stretches out his legs, expanding his posture without rising from his throne. A great man, his father once told him, occupies a great space in the world around him. M’Baku took those words to heart.

“You did not come all this way to appreciate my furnishings. Speak.”

T’Challa spreads his hands, his eyes still gleaming. A predator, draped in sheepskin, innocence quivering from his every pore. “Can a king not pay a visit to his friend?”

M’Baku chokes on a bark of laughter, startled violently from his throat by the sheer audacity of it all. He coughs and pounds at his chest with his fist, the blow muffled by his armor. T’Challa watches him patiently, a pensive line between his brows, and M’Baku finally leans back, his shoulders still quivering with mirth. “You are outrageous,” he says. “We are anything but friends.” To his irritation, T’Challa does not look disappointed, only quietly amused.

“A diplomatic outing, then.” T’Challa clasps his hands behind him, adopts an exaggerated stance of regality. “To a trusted advisor of mine.”

M’Baku eyes him, suspicious. “And on what matter do you wish to be advised? My  _ king _ .” The addition is deliberate, his tone careless and fleeting, and yet T’Challa only smiles at him. 

“In all seriousness, M’Baku, I only wish to familiarize myself with your land. Your people. Your home. There is much I still do not know.”

“That much is clear.”

“M’Baku.” Ah, there it is, a faint note of exasperation in the emphasis of his name. “Is it such a hardship?”

M’Baku makes a great show of scratching his neck and yawning, then snaps his teeth shut, showing them in a challenging grin. To his annoyance, he realizes he knew his response all along. “You did not call them  _ my _ people, the last time you stood where you stand now.”

T’Challa looks briefly startled, before his eyes soften and warm. M’Baku looks away and examines his fingernails, irked by his own behavior. “Our people, then,” corrects the king. “Come now, show me.”

…………..

It is not the last time the king drops in on him unannounced, stepping down from the ramp of his infuriating ship with an infuriating smile and an infuriating ease in the way he strides down M’Baku’s throne room and politely demands his time and attention. M’Baku does not always assent, but it is less of a struggle each time he does. The capital, he thinks, must be even more boring than he first thought, for its king to slip away so easily.

T’Challa takes his arm when they walk the narrow streets, shoulders pressed together like old friends, and M’Baku allows him this with an indulgence he did not care to examine the first time and still does not. He wonders if this is how the king usually conducts his visits to the other members of his precious Council and finds himself hoping that it is not.

He points out food stands, craftsmen, describes the most mediocre of sights with the dull droning tone of his childhood tutors, and T’Challa takes it all in stride, squeezing his elbow in amusement. 

“And here, O Great Panther, the greatest pride of J’Abariland, behold a chip in the stone that I left here myself, a discretion of my rough and troubled youth-”

“The people love you,” T’Challa says, apropos of nothing. M’Baku would be offended by the interruption, if he is not so taken aback instead.

M’Baku blinks, looks down at him. T’Challa does not look back, his gaze on the moving crowds instead. They press closely around them, apparently uncaring that they are jostling royalty, and a group of children call out to M’Baku as they run past, juggling a cloth ball between them. “They know me,” he says roughly. “What of it? You are no less beloved in your own city.” The words sit oddly on his tongue as he speaks them, and he wishes he could swallow them back.

T’Challa shakes his head, but he is smiling, and he pats M’Baku’s arm absently as they start walking again. “It is a good thing you yielded, on the day of our challenge.” He says it fondly, his eyes dancing.

“I would have smashed you open like a grape, Great Panther, given another moment.”

“Ah, if it suits you to think so, you are more than welcome to believe it.”

“I am accustomed to fighting  _ proper _ warriors, not half-grown kittens. It was only pity that stayed my hand.”

And so it goes.

…………..

M’Baku remembers crouching by the pit of snow, the prayers of Jabari shamans still lingering in the air, whispering at the corners. The smell of death straining, kept at bay for now, and M’Baku bared his teeth at it.  _ Small, _ he thought. He looked even smaller now than when M’Baku first laid eyes on him.

“T’Challa,” he said, low and disapproving. “You are of even less use to me dead than you are alive.” T’Challa did not stir, his brow glistening with an icy crown, and M’Baku felt a pang of impotent rage, there and gone again in a hot flash. 

“A life is a heavy debt to carry,” he told T’Challa’s still form. He leaned in, close enough to see T’Challa’s frozen eyelashes, the lines of pain drawn tight in his face. “Do not make me carry it further.” 

If he reached out then, it was only to reassure himself with the weak warmth of T’Challa’s breath.

…………..

“Perhaps you should visit me in Birnin Zana,” T’Challa tells him, weeks later. He is not even breathless, despite the punishing pace M’Baku has set for them. “Take in the warmer climate sometime.”

“I have seen your Golden City.” M’Baku kicks at a clump of snow, sends it scattering to fine powder across the mountain path. “And I enjoy this climate just fine.”

“For state visits only,” T’Challa argues, earnest in his persistence. “You haven’t seen it as I have.” His breath spills out in a white cloud before him, rising into the heavens. Panther strength or not, he still has to stretch his legs to match M’Baku’s stride, and M’Baku walks even faster. He tells himself it is only to be mocking, and not out of any eagerness to reach the gardens ahead. “The sunsets from the cliffs, the golden fields, the music-”

“The same sun sets here every day,” M’Baku says dismissively. “My white fields are as good as any, and I have never had an ear for music. My singing could shatter the mountains.”

“You are being stubborn for the sake of it,” T’Challa accuses. M’Baku looks up at the heavy sky to hide his grin.

“Perhaps.”

“I think perhaps you are afraid you will like it too much.” He is aiming to challenge now, chin tilted in defiance.

M’Baku snorts, unimpressed. “If it is so great, why are you here?” He wishes T’Challa’s steps do not fall so silently against the loose stones underfoot. He feels as if he is walking with a ghost.

“These gardens,” T’Challa says, switching gears so abruptly that a lesser man than M’Baku would find himself reeling. “They thrive even in this cold?”

M’Baku scoffs, but he is relieved nevertheless to find himself back on familiar ground. “Jabari gardens are strong. And these are not just any gardens.” They are nearing now; he can smell the greenery, thick and humid and startlingly warm in the crisp air. 

There now, a crevice splitting the rock face before them, tall and jagged and cutting deep enough into the mountain that only darkness shows in the narrow gap. He watches T’Challa stop and consider it, nostrils flaring at the summer scent, so incongruous in their surroundings. 

“Go on,” M’Baku tells him. T’Challa shoots a glance at him, clearly weighing the situation, and M’Baku keeps his expression carefully blank. He picks out the hidden guards when T’Challa looks away, three of them tucked invisibly into the craggy face of the cliffs, and they melt away with a discreet nod from him.

In the end, T’Challa slides into the mountain without question, and M’Baku follows with a long-suffering sigh. “A king should not be so trusting,” he calls out. He has to turn sideways in places to follow the narrow path, concentrating on putting one foot before the other. This was an easier trip before, when his father took him here as a child.

“What kind of king would I be if I cannot trust my own people?” comes the answer, already far enough ahead of him to be distant. Damn T’Challa, slinking so quickly around the corners. 

“A wiser one,” M’Baku mutters, and then he is popping free from the crevice, his foot sinking into thick, rich soil. He will never grow tired of this, the way the warm air slides welcomingly over his shoulders, dampening his skin and hair. Birds call overhead, birds that do not belong on the top of frozen mountains, and sunlight filters through broad, tropical leaves, painting the ground in golden green spots. The gardens sprawl out through the heart of the hollow mountain, sunlight streaming down from the large opening overhead. The Eye of Hanuman, who wept the tears that grew the jungles.

Even now, he remembers the first time he saw this place, how even as a young boy he could sense the latent power flowing in every root, every branch. These are the trees that build their homes, their armor, lend strength to their weapons. The Jabari may not have a mountain from the stars, but the earth has provided its own gifts to those who honor it, and the Jabari know honor over all else.

Ahead of him, T’Challa stands wide-eyed, lips parted in awe. M’Baku feels a gleaming pang of satisfaction, and there is more swagger in his step than usual as he approaches. “Like I said,” he says, putting no effort into suppressing his smugness. “These are not just any gardens.”

“This is not a garden at all,” T’Challa says, but he cannot stop looking, bending to examine the bright bloom of a vibrant blue flower. He reaches out automatically as if to touch it, but stops himself just short of stroking a long, curved petal. “How is it so warm here?” A large butterfly lands briefly on his head before darting away, and he lifts his head to follow the glimmer of its wings as it disappears.

M’Baku shrugs carelessly. “Does it matter? Come.” He wades his way deeper into the jungle, and T’Challa follows. 

The air grows thicker around them as they walk, heavy and sweet, and soon they come to a clear stream trickling down to a shallow pool. Around it, large pale forms shuffle peacefully, dipping their leathery hands into the water, picking at piles of fruit on the ground. 

“The children of Hanuman,” M’Baku says. He can feel T’Challa’s curiosity prickling at his skin, so full of childish eagerness that M’Baku nearly laughs at him. 

“Will they come to you?” T’Challa asks, watching the gorillas with clear fascination. They watch him back from across the pool with calm, dark eyes, making soft noises among themselves. T’Challa crouches down slowly and holds out a hand, as if they are simple animals to be wooed, and M’Baku snorts disdainfully.

“They come when they wish,” he says, “and only then. Stand up, you are embarrassing me.”

T’Challa straightens obligingly, looking at M’Baku sideways. “Reminds me of someone I know.” 

“They must be very handsome and charming.” M’Baku reaches up and plucks a mango from an overhanging branch. The fruit is heavy and ripe in his palm, and he slides a knife from his belt, slicing off a piece. He offers it first to T’Challa, without thinking, his fingers sticky with juice. 

There is a moment of hesitation, in which the sweet scent of the mango is suddenly overwhelming, and T’Challa’s eyes lift to meet his. There is a strange knowing in them, as if he has seen something in M’Baku that M’Baku does not know himself, and he resists the urge to snatch his hand away, to drop his offering to the dark soil. He does not move, only looks back in steady challenge, and T’Challa takes the fruit from him. Their fingertips do not touch, and M’Baku tells himself he is neither relieved nor disappointed.

They walk through the trails together, T’Challa’s teeth white against the bright flesh of the mango as he bites into it, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek in enjoyment. M’Baku eats his own half of the fruit and tastes nothing, his mind buzzing with distraction. He licks his fingers clean and smirks when T’Challa glances at him. 

The gardens are large enough that it takes the good part of an hour to reach the other side of the cavern. The trees grow taller and larger as they go, and soon they are clambering over gnarled roots the size of children, twisted together centuries ago and left to grow. The air is cooler here, shaded beneath the canopy. M’Baku points out a natural alcove in the side of the cavern, where a gap in the stone allows a view out into the open air. A blast of wintry air occasionally slips in, snow melting instantly in the warmth. They sit together on one of T’Challa’s shawls and watch the dark dots of eagles spiraling in the iron gray sky, listening to the chattering of parrots and monkeys overhead.

“The wood in your armor,” T’Challa says thoughtfully. “Your spears. This is where they come from.” 

M’Baku hums, thumbing absently at the heavy wooden ring on his finger. A reminder, his mother told him, when she slid it on his hand. A reminder of where he came from, where he will return one day. “We borrow,” he says, “and we return tenfold.”

T’Challa is quiet for a long moment. When he next moves, it is a casual shift of his weight that bring their shoulders close together, enough for them to touch if M’Baku wishes it. He holds carefully still, but feeling the residual warmth radiating from T’Challa is almost worse than full contact. “I would like to show you our mountain sometime.”

“Bah, this again.” M’Baku makes a dismissive sound. “I have enough wonders here to last me five lifetimes, thank you.” 

T’Challa swats at him halfheartedly. “For Bast’s sake, M’Baku, you take everything as an insult. I only thought you might like it.”

“I take no insult. You’re just refusing to understand, stupid king.” He regrets it almost as soon as he says it. Foolish, to stumble so in front of a panther. Already T’Challa’s eyes are narrow and intent, and M’Baku feels distinctly hunted.

“Explain it to me, then, your stupid king.” T’Challa leans forward, so that M’Baku cannot avoid his gaze without making a fool of himself.

Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps once he has heard, he will cease to come, and perhaps M’Baku can carry on with the running of his lands. Perhaps T’Challa will look on him instead with a terrible pity, and M’Baku will have to kill him after all. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

“Why should I wish to visit your city,” M’Baku says slowly, weighing each word in his mouth, “when I already see the only worthwhile thing there so frequently?”

T’Challa’s mouth opens, but no sound escapes, and the way he looks at M’Baku then makes M’Baku laugh, his chest suddenly drawing tight. He raps it with his closed fist, but the feeling doesn't alleviate.

“You  _ are  _ a stupid king,” he says instead, and the words are so fond to his own ears that he feels himself choking on them. He forces a grin, slants his eyes away. “It was only a joke.” 

“Your jokes are not funny,” T’Challa says quietly, thoughtfully.

“Ah, well. Perhaps they are wasted on you.” M’Baku makes to stand up, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest growing, but T’Challa reaches out and catches his wrist, fingers tight around his arm brace as he tugs M’Baku back down. 

“Do you know, M’Baku,” he says, his tone almost conversational, “why I am here?” 

M’Baku says nothing. He is not used to this, not knowing what to say, and so he just breathes, his chest filling and emptying as he waits.

“No,” T’Challa continues, as if answering himself. He looks absurdly satisfied, for reasons M’Baku refuses to contemplate. “I didn’t think so.” He leans forward then, those damnably soft eyes dark and merciless, and he kisses M’Baku like a benediction. It is a quiet, chaste touch, a careful press of skin to skin, and there is a deep rumble in the air between them, one that takes M’Baku a moment to register.

“Ha,” he says, laughter bubbling up desperately within him, a last ditch effort to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. He has lost grasp of the situation, and it is not a comfortable feeling. “The kitten purrs so nicely.”

T’Challa growls then, too deep and wild to be mistaken for anything other than what it is, and he pushes at M’Baku’s chest, hard enough that M’Baku has to slam a hand down to keep from tumbling over entirely. In that split second, T’Challa is on him again, one hand tangled in his mantle, his kiss hard and biting. His mouth is sweet from the mango, and hot. A summer kiss, one that burns and gives and takes.

_ Ah _ , M’Baku thinks,  _ to hell with it.  _ He kisses back, heat building fast and unsteadily within him at the sharp prick of T’Challa’s teeth, the demanding pull of his hands as he tugs impatiently at M’Baku’s clothes. M’Baku has to admit that perhaps he has underestimated T’Challa all along. Here is the warrior he faced on the falls, here is the mouth that snarled at him so fiercely, kissing him now with a different sort of passion. Here are his hands, bloodied and bruised then, hot and caressing now on M’Baku’s chest, shoving aside his armor and leathers to slide flush against his skin.

He chuckles, breathless, into the slick heat of T’Challa’s mouth as T’Challa’s wandering hands drift lower, palming at the swell of his cock through his remaining layers of clothing. “Like something you see, my king?”

“Do not call me that,” T’Challa says, giving him a hard squeeze, and M’Baku bites back a groan.  _ Dangerous _ , he thinks. The man is far too dangerous. “Not now.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” M’Baku answers, because he has always been reckless in a way that made his tutors sigh and his mother’s head ache, and T’Challa makes a heavy noise of exasperation above him.

“Will nothing shut you up?” T’Challa demands, amused and annoyed in one. His hands have not stopped moving, working M’Baku to full hardness, thumbing maddeningly at the head of his cock. “You impossible man.”

“I can think of a few things,” M’Baku gasps, laughter still catching at the edge of his voice, and he raises a hand to T’Challa’s shoulder, tipping them over and to the side. 

T’Challa is wearing far too many clothes, and M’Baku swiftly gives up on the idea of ridding him of all of them, tugging his trousers loose instead. “You lowlanders,” he chides, shouldering his way down between T’Challa’s thighs. “So weak to a little bit of cold.”

T’Challa looks distinctly dazed, as if he cannot quite believe what he is seeing, and M’Baku yanks his trousers down to his knees, grinning as T’Challa’s cock sways freely before him. It is pretty and hard, already wet at the tip, and it hardens even further as M’Baku examines it and leans in close. “Hm,” he says, kissing instead at T’Challa’s hip, letting his beard rub over the soft skin at T’Challa’s inner thigh. 

“ _ M’Baku _ ,” T’Challa groans, and M’Baku decides he enjoys hearing his name called out like this, in the same voice that addresses entire cities, tribes, nations.

He turns his head, allows T’Challa’s cock to slide against his cheek, and he presses his forearm across T’Challa’s hips to keep him from thrusting up, pleased by the frustrated noise T’Challa lets loose above him. “T’Challa,” he says, letting the syllables drip slowly from his tongue, savoring the shape of it in his mouth. 

T’Challa shivers, and M’Baku is certain he is not conscious of it, his eyes blown wide and black and his fingers clutching hard enough at M’Baku’s shoulders to bruise. 

“T’Challa,” he says again. “My king. Why can't you be both?” He swallows T’Challa down without waiting for a response, and T’Challa gives a low, startled grunt, his voice hitching around M’Baku’s name.

M’Baku has known his fair share of cocks, though not so frequently in recent memory, but the action itself is familiar enough. It is the knowledge of just who he has inside his mouth, nudging at the back of his throat, that lends a quivering edge of excitement to his arousal. He lets T’Challa bottom out, holding him there just long enough to feel the beginnings of dizziness before pulling up and off, licking T’Challa’s taste from his lips. T’Challa’s cock twitches in the air, dripping wet, so hard that M’Baku feels his own cock ache in sympathy, and T’Challa’s hips jerk up beneath M’Baku’s arm. He can break free if he wishes, they both know. They are no longer so evenly matched as they were once before, not with the Herb coursing through T’Challa’s veins. 

“Fuck,” M’Baku says distinctly. “Look at you.” He strokes his hand along T’Challa’s thigh, spreads his legs wider and admires the stretch of smooth skin before him. The Herb took away his wounds, but also his scars. M’Baku feels a pang of regret that whatever marks he leaves here today will also disappear.

T’Challa’s jaw tightens, and M’Baku knows that if he presses his fingers to T’Challa’s cheeks, they will be hot with embarrassment. “You talk too much.”

“Shall I fuck you here?” M’Baku asks in return, delighted. “Here in the gardens of my god?”

T’Challa makes a wild, shocked sound, his eyes wide and feverish. His cock jumps, drips a trail of precome over his belly. M’Baku wraps his fingers around him, squeezing tight around the base, and waits until T’Challa settles again, panting. 

“Or maybe you would like to fuck me,” M’Baku offers generously, and T’Challa swears, his voice rough and guttural. It is exhilarating, to hear the king blaspheme so well.

“Perhaps next time,” M’Baku decides. It will be better than this, he is sure. He can see it already, T’Challa spread out over his bed, painted in the dusky red glow from his lanterns, nothing between them but sweat and breath and oil. 

“Next time, next time,” T’Challa mutters. He rolls his hips deliberately, pushes just hard enough against M’Baku’s arm to thrust into his grip. “Focus on the present.”

“And what a pretty present you make!” M’Baku exclaims, unable to resist. T’Challa looks as murderous as M’Baku has ever seen him, and he leans down to appease him with a kiss, trailing his way down T’Challa’s jaw. 

“You are so serious,” he murmurs. “Live a little.” T’Challa exhales hard when M’Baku presses his teeth against his collarbone, and so he does it again, mapping out a necklace of stinging kisses around his throat. 

Their clothes come off quickly after that, T’Challa shoving his robes down loose around his waist, tossing the pieces of M’Baku’s armor aside. 

“If you wanted this all along, you could’ve just asked,” M’Baku gasps, then groans when T’Challa straddles his thighs, taking their cocks in both his hands. “I would’ve taken you gladly. Saved me the trouble of being your tour guide all these weeks.”

T’Challa grunts, sweat dripping from his forehead as he looks down at the two of them, hard and slick in the loose grip of his fingers, and M'Baku leans up, licking the salt away. T’Challa withholds his noises selfishly, and M’Baku is determined to hear every single one. 

T’Challa’s kisses are softer now, distracted, and M’Baku strokes lazy hands down his back, grabs handfuls of his ass and squeezes until T’Challa makes a low noise, his hips hitching forward.

“There now,” M’Baku says encouragingly, the words careening out of him. “There, like that. You are so good, has anyone told you that? Fuck, T’Challa-”

“Stop  _ talking, _ ” T’Challa groans. He grinds down against M’Baku and shudders, his mouth falling open. 

M’Baku relents, because T’Challa is right, there are so many things he could do instead of talking. Things like tightening his grip on T’Challa’s ass and pulling him forward, letting him fuck forward against M’Baku’s stomach, his cock leaving sticky streaks on his skin. It doesn’t take long for T’Challa to come, his body tensing in one long motion, his mouth open and wet against M’Baku’s cheek as he shudders out a stifled whimper, and M’Baku follows almost immediately at that small sound, grinding up against T’Challa’s weight.

“You are a complicated man,” T’Challa says, afterwards, his head heavy on M’Baku’s shoulder and his fingers walking a path up and down M’Baku’s chest. He tweaks a nipple as he goes and chuckles when M’Baku twitches.

“Such a cutting accusation. I may never recover,” M’Baku drawls. He takes T’Challa’s hand off his chest and kisses his fingers, grins when T’Challa shivers against him. “Maybe you are just thinking too hard.”

“Your jokes are really not that funny,” T’Challa tells him, catching M’Baku’s jaw and giving it a reproachful shake before letting go. He rolls onto his back so that they lie side by side, staring up through the Eye at the open sky. 

M’Baku chuckles, lax now in this soft bliss surrounding them. Here, they are only men, not kings, not panthers, not gods. He rolls his head to the side and focuses on the tangle of their clothing, the glint of vibranium teeth draped over his own furs. He does not remember T’Challa taking the necklace off, and he wonders if it is so easily shed. Funny, he thinks, that such a heavy mantle should look so small and delicate. 

“It has been some time,” he muses, “since I have had a vacation.”

T’Challa stirs at that, and M’Baku feels his eyes on him. “So you…”

M’Baku humphs. He is beginning to develop a habit, he realizes with dismay, of saying things in front of T’Challa that he does not intend to. “I might be convinced.”

A hand slides over his wrist, another reaching over him to curve around his shoulder, and T’Challa covers him like the smiling night, eyes brighter than any mountain of stars. “Then allow me to start.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Send requests and yell with me on tumblr @mangopuffs  
> Twitter: @_mangochi


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